To Carthage They Came
by Chris7
Summary: Ch. 5 is up... Let's take a peek into the minds of some important folks just post-Grave, and then speculate along with the rest of fandom as to what S7 might involve. Spike friendly...
1. Prologue

Title:  To Carthage They Came (Prologue)

Author:  Chris

Rating:  PG-13

Summary:  The obligatory post-Grave speculation fic.  There were a jillion loose ends dangling.  This is my attempt to tie some of them together. 

A/N:  This prologue is short, and not terribly narrative.   It's a set up for a fairly lengthy story -- I don't want to say how many chapters, because I always end up with more than I've outlined.  I tend to get a chapter out appx. every 7-10 days, and I'm a good bit of the way into it, so patience, please :-)  Credits to T.S. Eliot and St. Augustine for inspiration, and the usual suspects for keeping me in line.  I'd do shout outs to everyone, but geez, it's a long list.  You guys are the greatest!!  

-- -- -- -- -- --

The second stair from the top creaks when he steps on it.  It is strange to be in this house, in this town he once called home, walking up these steps to watch these women--the ones he thought of as his children.  Daughters of his heart, mind, and soul.  

Giles stands at the top of the landing and listens.  It is the one thing he could not do for them when he was gone.  

The one thing they needed most.

-- -- -- -- -- --

The silence of the night chokes her with its demands.  

Lie still, stop thinking, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.  Buffy rolls over for what must be the ten thousandth time, tangling the sheets into a tighter knot between her knees and arms.  Nighttime used to be her element, cool and comforting--she had been in control.  But not tonight, or any other night for some time now.  Tonight, the darkness brings no quiet.  The mental repetition of recent events coils her emotions in ever tightening knots.  

*

Blond on blond, sucking her fears out through her toes; comfort flashed in contempt at a lost child.

*

Love denied, shrieking pain through hands and face and voice; redemption brought low with a single blow.

*

Splashing red, announcing life's loss in dissonant patterns; friendship ground from warm brown to glittering black.

*

Buffy flails in her sheets, wringing small comfort from the wrinkled cotton remnants of childhood between her limbs.  One after another, distorted images light the screen of her closed eyelids.

*

Blinding white light, calling her to serve a third time; confusion dashed hope on yellow highway stripes.

*

Masculinity, safety and abandonment, joining her in laughter; absolution sacrificed to unfairness.

*

Beloved burden, crying out for independence; guilt surrendered in final acceptance .

*

Her fist flies into the pillow as she sits up, furious.  With herself.  With him.  A vision of her headstone lingers in her mind's eye. "She Saved the World.  A Lot."  

It never ends, does it?  

Except this time, she hasn't managed the task at all.  Only sheer chance and Giles' arrival stopped her morose self-absorption from allowing the world's complete destruction.  

Buffy swings her legs over the side of the bed and stares at the door.  A shower would probably clear her head, but Willow's asleep in the other bedroom.  She likes, no, needs things clear and simple.  Good and evil, right and wrong, happy and mad -- these are not mixy things in her world.  And she can't remember when the blurring started, but she knows things may never be clear again.

So much damage to repair.  And left alone, again, to fix it.  She pushes back the rage and stands, eyes still fixed across the room.   

She has to start by saving herself.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

A startled cough emerges from his throat when the doorknob turns and Buffy appears in her bathrobe.  "Ah...er, Buffy.  I was just..."

She smiles a sad, knowing smile and helps him out of his predicament.  "Checking on Willow?" Two...three...four, and there it is.

Giles removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose as he nods towards the master bedroom.  "Yes.  Precisely.  But if you're going in..."

Buffy scuffles her feet and looks at the floor.  "Actually, I think Willow's sleeping.  I'll...Dawn'll be done in there in a minute."  Frightened, angry eyes shoot a sidelong glance at the hall bathroom door.  She knows he knows why she hesitates.

"Right, then. Well, I'll just..." Now he is the one looking at the floor. He feels a hypocrite, wanting to offer soothing words when his anger is as rough as her own.  

His quiet, deliberate footsteps ring behind her as he leaves to care for Willow.  Gathering her courage, she pushes the door open.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

Dawn stares at the water swirling down the drain.  Atoms and molecules, all doing the orderly dance her chemistry teacher described in such excruciating detail.  Gravity, giving inanimate, un-seeable objects their pattern in life.  Just what was supposed to give glowy green Keys their patterns?    

The shine of the light in the mirror draws her eyes upward.  An ordinary human face in the mirror stares back at her.  

Nothing remarkable.  

The mirror can't show what's really there.  The hollowness inside doesn't melt the shine in her eyes or streak the gloss of her hair.  She thinks maybe Buffy is fighting her way back from wherever she's been since they called her out of her grave.  But her own emptiness echoes in the room as loudly as it has since the day her mother died.  She closes her eyes to shut out the silence and, after a moment, feels the touch of her mother's hand on her hair.

When she turns, it's Buffy who's standing nearby.  Mother.  Sister.  Self.  The thin-as-rails arms enfold Dawn as she speaks. 

"I'm here."

-- -- -- -- -- --

Giles raises calloused fingertips to trace the frame of the door to Joyce's room.  It's like so much in this house -- neglected.  Chipped at by time and inattention, until the cracks in it warp the weft of the wood.  He isn't sure that even the touch of a skilled carpenter could put that to rights.  

His finger snags on a splinter when he hears the groans from within.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

The water rushes in the pipes, reminding Willow that there is a here, that someone feels.  The magic is gone, but she still knows their pain; she will always know the pain.

Her stomach clenches in agony.  Oh god how it burns.  It might never leave her.  Her thoughts skitter -- synapses fire, but nothing quite connects.  Sharp jerks of knowing dominate what should be a fluid pattern of grief and sorrow.  Something in her is cracked.  Maybe beyond repair.  

Willow rolls in the bed and hears Buffy's rage in the floods of falling water.  The coldness seeps through her veins even now.  She wants to care, but caring has gone on the wings of an angel.  

She hears him in the hallway.  If she could find a way, she would tell him, her surrogate father -- her judge, jury, and executioner.  But words are not enough.  

He knows.  All the yellow crayons in the world won't fix what's broken now.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

Slender arms slip around his waist, and Giles hears her sigh as she presses her face into his arm.  In that sigh, he hears everything she doesn't say.

"I can't stay, Dawn.  There's no hope at all unless I take her back."

She pushes him away.  She's learned her sister's lessons well, and she throws the most bitter of them in his face.  "Of course.  Come in, let us believe you want to help, then go.  You think you're different, but you're not."

He watches as she runs down the hall.  He knows to whom she was speaking.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Broken shrieks pierce the air.  No one dares enter to discover whether the pale stranger lives or dies, but the sentries keep watch.  

*

Laughing faces name him, know him; he is naked before their judgment -- Orestes, laid bare.

*

Screaming women line the hallways of his mind, holding cold babies that live but do not breathe.

*

Rivers of blood drown his senses, tainting sight, taste, smell, and sound with the salt of a thousand souls.

*

The fires told their shaman that with the shaking of the earth, a new danger woke.  Their bones know that the one in the cave is essential.  For three days and three nights, they have beat their drums and drained the blood from their goats.  It will be needed.

*

Dark beauty slinks into the crevices of his mind, shrieking mad laughter at the jerking of his flesh beneath her torture.

* 

White-hot lightening seizes his essence, returning through his soul every moment of fear and pain and torment he's ever delivered.

*

Wide green eyes stare at a broken man, seething hate past clean white tiles.

*

The most electrifying scream yet splits the air.  The drummers cease their beating, and a young boy walks forward from their midst to the mouth of the cave.  A wraith-like figure emerges, and the boy reaches out a hand.

"Come. It is time."

-- -- -- -- -- --

Leaving the sound of rushing water behind, Giles descends the stairs in search of hope. 

-TBC-


	2. Chapter 1

Title:  To Carthage They Came (Chapter 1)

Author:  Chris

Rating:  PG-13 

Summary:  About 6 weeks post-Prologue. Willow's in England, Buffy's at her new job, and Dawn's on a mission for Anya.  Spike, for the moment, is still somewhere in Africa.

A/N:  The pace is moving much more slowly than I'd planned.  Good thing I didn't say how many chapters :-)  In case you missed it, the Prologue is at http://www.geocities.com/cxyzjacobs/btvsfic/chrisindex.html

Feedback: Chocolate is good, feedback is better.  Chocolate + feedback is heaven.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

Tendrils of smoke rise from yellow-orange flames that lick the still night air.  The lessons are always at night.  The old ones need the power of the fire and the clarity of the night for their teaching.  Lucid moments do not last, and the protections they lay make it harder for him to fight free to the surface.    But there is no help for it.  He must live, and he must learn.

The night feels wild, but Spike is oblivious.  He stares at the flames from beneath the hood and mutters to the voices in his head.  A hyena howls at the moon, drawing his attention.  He looks up, a startled bird with wide, innocent blue eyes, catching a star as it falls into the darkness.  His own howl accompanies its disappearance, and he stands to stare at the fires.  Fists ball up in rage, and the innocence in his aspect shifts.

          ***

"You will burn."  Daddy dearest knew, even then.  

Strength is, must be, cold and brutal.  There is no place in this world for poetry. 

He sees the book in the fire, its pages sending out black smoke, thick and sour.  His life, his liberty, up in flames.  

The church will have him.  

He hears his mother cry.  

They bury him with a cross. 

          ***

The boy pulls Spike's head into his lap when he collapses and begins to weep. He slips the _kalimba into the vampire's pocket with the other supplies.  The music will not soothe tonight, but he will need it when the time comes._

-- -- -- -- -- --

Hiding from the cold wind under the wings of a weeping oak, Willow watches the graying landscape.  Even though the village has a milder summer season than much of England, today is a miserable day.  The sharp, spitting rain suits her mood perfectly.  Off in the distance, she can see the town, with its quaint pubs and thatch-roofed cottages.  Quiet, even in tourist season, and just the place for a coven of great power to congregate.  

The edges of her mouth tilt crookedly as her hand reaches down to pull absently at the green grass beneath her.  Leave it to Giles to bring her to a place even more steeped in power than a Hellmouth.  

She leans back on the tree and closes her eyes against the shooting pain that follows any attempt to concentrate.   In the weeks she's been here, she has learned much.  But only when she is distant from people, the sounds and smells of life that surround their bodies, can she locate even the smallest measure of the woman she was.

Focus, they say. You have to re-learn, as if you have never touched power.  She'd thought at first that the magic was gone, that she'd 'burnt out' her source.  That was a dream, wishful thinking.  A prayer.  

The second they removed the shield, she felt it flooding through her veins, that fierce, throbbing sensation that tickled at her fingertips and danced behind her eyes.  The agony that once gripped her only in the night blazes through her body, until she drops to her knees on the dirt floor of the cottage.  She wanted to beg, to tear her hair and scream for relief from the power that throbbed in her soul.  But the raging emotions were caged in her mind.  She lacked the capacity to express them.  

It should be as simple as a child's game to her.  But it isn't.  Nothing is easy any more.  For every inch of control she gains, there is a mountain of pain to fight through.  She feels it building now -- the little boy in his mother's kitchen, crying for another cookie.  The old man, stubbing his toe on the tile as he steps precariously over the threshold into his dingy old kitchen.  The wracking sobs of the fisherman's wife, upon learning of her husband's infidelity, again.  

And there is the hazy, omnipresent pain.  It lingers, taunting her with her loss:  the old woman's grief at the passing of her husband, the sudden absence of a love that grew for 50 years.  The lack is a slowly turning knife in Willow's gut, sharper and more intense than reliving the ecstasy of slick, fear-soaked skin ripping deliberately from the flesh it was meant to contain.  

With an iron will, Willow pushes the images away and the bile down.  She has a task to perform.  Deliberately, she calls hazel eyes to mind.  Not the fatherly warm brown, but the hard, cold agate of the judge.

Ahhh.  She feels it.  A tear is near to forming.  She opens her eyes in startlement and stares intently at a small shrub.  

There.  

Willow rises and walks through the now streaming rain toward the greenery.  A pale hand darts in and pulls out a small brown bundle.  A wren, struggling to breathe.  Inhaling deeply, she closes her eyes and cups the tiny bird in both hands.  She doesn't need words for this.  A yellow glow surrounds the tiny creature briefly.  The air stands perfectly still for a moment, and the world turns over.

The bird flies, and Willow collapses in a heap, drained.

-- -- -- -- -- -- 

Buffy stares out the window, watching the sun set behind the new hill on the bluff.  Every time she sees the rubble Willow left behind, a shiver runs through her.  Such destruction, and from her best friend.  The big gun.  

Restive, she gets up from the desk and walks through the shabby house toward the kitchen.  If her spidey senses are in tune, tonight is shaping up for quiet.  No Bubbas or Billy Bobs or Juniors showing up to stake Neanderthal claims to the women and children sheltered in the complex hidden beneath the simple one-bedroom house. 

For the most part, this new job working for the Sunnydale Battered Women's Shelter has been a sanity saver.  The pay isn't all that much better than slinging burgers, but it comes with benefits, and not just the insurance kind.  Flexible shifts have been a godsend, and, major bonus, being a security guard doesn't require a uniform or leave a nasty smell.  

Buffy stops at the door that ostensibly leads to the basement and listens.  She is tempted to go down, but it only reminds her of where they are, and that she can leave when most of them can't.  With a little shrug of her shoulders, she moves into the kitchen.  

She owes the cop who put her in touch with the rescue group more than a simple thanks for getting her out of the grease and into a position where she could use her dubious talents to their fullest.  She likes this job more than any other she's tried, and there have been quite a few.  Most of the time, she enjoys it more than slaying.  She's always been at her best when she is helping someone, and here –  so much helping is needed.  

There have been some fun moments, too.  It's especially satisfying to see shock furrow those wide-browed foreheads when she picks them up and throws them down the walkway.  A few are dumb enough to come back for more, but most run for the hills.   

The runners often have haunted eyes, shadow selves lurking behind dull pupils.  They know what they've done--what they continue to do--is wrong, but are helpless to do anything about it.  Sometimes, seeing the too-familiar love living behind their big words, she even feels a little sorry for them.  

But, only until she remembers the women's faces.  _All of the women have haunted eyes.  Eyes deadened by years, even decades, of survival.  Eyes that tell of the lies singing in their souls, laying blame for others' evil deeds._

Buffy's thoughts drift away on a flash of blue and the hollow echo of an empty crypt.  She feels a rush of anger filling her veins to wash away the sadness.  These men are boys, really.  That is the real problem.  None of them can face up to their actions, take responsibility.  Work it out like the adults their hormones make them out to be.  

They run.  They always run.

With a rough jerk, Buffy twists her hair back into a knot and heads for the sink.

That's the real problem with the new job.  The house is located in an isolated area of woods near the bluff.  When the orange glow of the afternoon begins to fade behind the trees, and the quiet of evening comes upon the house, she can't help thinking.  

Thinking is always, always, of the bad.

Mindless repetition will break the endless circling of her thoughts, so she attacks the dirty dishes with a vengeance, scrubbing away memories of the men in her life as she deals with the remnants of an afternoon snack with her favorite munchkin.  

A smile creeps over her face as she remembers the best twenty minutes of every day.  Chocolate chip cookies with her sister.  It doesn't get much more normal than that.  Buffy the Vampire Slayer, getting with the normal.  And she hasn't missed trash day in weeks.

Normal tasks, normal girls, normal boys, normal lives.  

If she works at it, she could manage most of those.  Three out of four wouldn't be bad.  Buffy towels off the last dish and walks back to the desk to pick up the phone.  She's determined to do better at this normal thing, and Officer Mabry is as good a place as any to start.

.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

Dawn sighs and shrugs her shoulders to loosen tight muscles as she digs the shovel into the rubble once more. For two weeks running, Dawn's been sent out scavenging for relics to restock the Magic Box.  She dislikes working at the temple excavation far more than working in the shop. It wasn't enough for Anya to insist on her working at the Magic Box through the spring semester. The slave-driving demon wants her entire summer, too. 

With a loud expletive that Buffy would have been shocked to hear coming from her mouth, Dawn flings the shovel across the rubble pile and sits down, sucking on the third torn fingernail of the day.   A small sigh escapes her lips as she stares at the mess her hands have become.  She isn't going to find anything in this spot.  It's riper than the trash pile on Thursdays, and deader than a door nail.  

But Anya is right -- there is *something* in this wreckage.  Dawn can feel it.  Sometimes it comes to her in indistinct whispers.  Other times, it thrums her insides as if invisible hands pluck her guts like a bass guitar.  There is something with power here.  Of that she is certain.  

So, resent the heat and the physical labor she may, but she'll keep at it for as long as it takes to find whatever is pulling at her.  If she finds what's lurking in this pile of rubble, she'll be free of Anya forever, and they will have to give her credit for being valuable in her own right.  

Behind her, she hears the rumble of tires on gravel.  She rolls her eyes.  And there's 'Dad' now.  Wiping the sweat off her forehead, Dawn picks up her tools and bags and heads for Xander's truck.  Air conditioning!  

As she hops into the cab, she notices a thin stream of smoke floating up from a pile off to the east.  A little thrill runs through her at the thought that her task might soon be over.  Mentally noting the location, she slams the door behind her with a sly grin.  

Only a little more time until they'll see her for what she really is.

-- -- -- -- -- --

The world swims around him, and the shift into now shakes his bones.  His head feels like it has exploded, but there is something soft, comforting him....  He bolts upright as his eyes open to find a small brown hand stroking his forehead. He remembers.  The quick roll away from his caretaker is instinctive.    

Still in Africa.  And the goddamned soul hasn't changed a thing.  Except that apparently, he's a loon in the care of a bunch of buck-toothed natives.

Time escapes him in great chunks, but he knows he's been here for weeks.  

They watch the white robe flap at his ankles as he stalks away.  It's his way.  They know by now not to expect his cooperation.  The anger that consumes him when he lives in the present is a barrier to understanding, and they leave him to do the work of recovery.

Apart from the faces of his salvation, he slams a fist against the trunk of the tall, bare tree.  

He came here to get what she needed.  And he can't leave until he has it.  He thought it was the soul, but now he knows:  it is himself.  He is what he has always been.  Once a child, lost and unwilling to fight for what he believed; then a man, unable to achieve his desires; at the last, for the always, a vampire, steeped in blood and decades of blind destruction, thrilling to the hunt for the sake of the chase and the glory.  

A waste of space on the planet, man or monster.  

A vise grips his temples, and he runs barefoot through the sand, holding onto the present with every fiber of his being. An assonant tune plays in the back of his mind.  He has this chance, if he will take it.

A cool British voice hovers in his mind "Has it occurred to you that there may be a higher purpose?"

An image dances through his brain.  Dawn, eyes glinting blue ice.  He shivers at the malice in them. 

He grinds the heel of his hand between his eyes, trying to resist the pain flooding his senses.  It is too much for him, and he succumbs, alone in the desert. 

-TBC-


	3. Chapter 2

To Carthage They Came:  Chapter 2

A/N:   It's looking like a long ride, so relax and get comfortable.  Spike's still hanging out in the desert, Willow and Giles are getting some pretty wonky vibes from Sunnydale, Buffy's getting ready for a date, and Dawn's up to *no* good.  Pay attention in this chapter -- you'll be sorry later if you don't ;-)

-- -- -- -- -- --

Dry winds swirl sand across the desert as rosy orange fingers of morning stretch toward the horizon.  The searchers' eyes alight on the wisps of white that signal the half-buried shape of a man twenty yards from the mouth of a cave.  Both men breathe a sigh of relief.  Once more, they've found him before daybreak.  This is the nearest yet they've come to losing him.  

The shaman warned them that the protections are nearing the end of endurance.  Perhaps the time of teaching has also reached its conclusion.  Another flight like tonight's and they'll have lost him permanently.  

The dark searchers bend to remove him from the desert's capricious shield.

                                              ***

_He walks through the corridor, heedless of the people and things surrounding him.  His head is bent to his task, and his attention drifts from the merely physical.  It is a defense honed over long years of Church and Father, his way of hiding from the reality he does not fit.  _

_He stumbles over a claw-footed table, and wire-rimmed glasses slip, exposing startlingly blue eyes.  How he hates these gatherings.  They giggle and point and posture, making him the butt of their jokes.  His mouth twists in wry acknowledgement of his own ineptitude, and he swallows down the acrid burn of embarrassment._

_There is only one goal that makes this torture worthwhile --his Shining One.  If he succeeds, he might even placate Father's desire that he find a 'proper'  wife.  The notion of doing anything whatsoever that would please his progenitor raises an unexpectedly melodious chuckle.  Picking himself up, he peers into the next room, index finger shoving the hated glasses back up his nose. _

_As the world swims into focus his eyes light on her, the source of his inspiration.__  She has a delicate beauty, demanding worship of a certain sort.  His features soften into a wide-eyed, innocent longing, and he turns back to the pen and pad in his hand.  It represents all that he is, scritches of ink on parchment meant to unlock the gleaming essence of her worth.  No one else could possibly see her, appreciate her, or cherish her the way he does. _

                                              ***

There is no time to return to camp, so they drag his body into the cave and set up watch near its entrance.  Knowing that he is of the living dead, the two men exchange a look of quiet surprise over the body that should be motionless.  His chest moves as if he breathes.

                                              ***

_She wants to speak to him.  His moment has arrived. A knot of fear and anticipation has gathered, filling his chest and throat from the instant he laid eyes on her.  There is something raw in the air tonight.  It can only be that she is, finally, ready for him.  All that is good and true-- she must see it.  He looks up at her through hair and glass and hope, offering himself.  And sweetly, she delivers his death blow._

_Time and space unreel, buffeting him into the alleyway, where he surrenders tears and mortality to rapacious black eyes.   Ecstasy flows into his veins through the exit wound left by his soul.  _

_He is, truly, beneath her.  _

-- -- -- -- --

Clothes hit the bed in a flurry of cotton and silk.  

"I haven't seen you do this in, like, years."  Dawn lounges briefly in the doorway of Buffy's bedroom, watching her sister walk from closet to bureau and back again in a fury of feminine indecision.  In true little-sister fashion, she walks across the room and flops on the bed, sweeping a short shirt and several pairs of pants out of the way in her slide.  

"Got a big date?" 

Buffy whips a black tank top over her head and turns to face Dawn with a smile on her face.  "Get off my hose, twerp!" 

Dawn grins back.  "No?  Who'da thunk it?  You're doing the closet marathon for good old Doris..."  Smirking, the teenager flips over onto her back and twists her feet in the air.  "So, Ms. Suddenly-Has–A-Social-Life, who's the lucky guy?"

"You say that like there have been more than, oh, zero, in the last couple of years...It's John again.  And hey! where're my gold hoops?"  

Buffy whirls on her sister, hands on hips.  Oh please.   Not with the sticky fingers...

"Chill, Buffy.  They're on the counter in the bathroom...where *you* left them."  Dawn reaches and sweeps the stuffed pig from the nightstand. "Oh, Mr. Gordo," she croons into its fuzzy pink face, "I'm _so sorry.  You've been left for another pig."  Squeals of laughter fill the room as she bounces off the bed to avoid a balled-up T-shirt aimed at her head.  _

"Seriously, Buffy," Dawn calls into the bathroom.  "Where're you going?  I mean, it's all night-time and everything.  You're wearing a skirt.  You haven't been on a real date since.…" The light goes out of Dawn's eyes as Buffy re-enters the room, suddenly far less chipper.  

Clever, very clever.  Way to keep her happy and avoid the third degree.  Searching for a new distraction, Dawn quickly crosses the room to retrieve her backpack from the doorway.  "Oooooh.  Did I tell you?"  Preening, she pulls out a sheaf of papers from summer school.  "An A!"

"Great, Dawnie.  And nice try.  I'm so not falling for it.  What are you trying to hide?"  The second earring goes in behind the first, and Buffy heads for the dressing table, staring expectantly at her sister's reflection in the mirror.

"You're paranoid.  You'd think I gave you a reason to be suspicious or something.  Come on, Buffy, spill.  Do you really dig this guy?  A cop?"  Dawn brushes invisible fuzz from her shoulder and shifts on her feet, wondering if this tactic will work.  After Buffy lifts the hairbrush up in the air and back down again three times, without touching her head, with still no response forthcoming, Dawn knows she's won the game.

Buffy turns around to look at Dawn with a mixture of exasperation and uncertainty in her face.  "Of course I like him.  Why else would I--?"  

At the sound of the doorbell, Buffy jumps up, giving herself a final once-over in the mirror and heading for the door. "Good night, Dawn.  _Don't go out alone tonight."  _

"You got it," Dawn chirps.  "No monster mash tonight, nope.  Not me.  Magic Box, then home.  Now go; have fun."  

As soon as the car turns the corner, Dawn grabs her jacket and a shovel.  She's got work to do, tonight.

-- -- -- -- -- -- 

As they settle the vampire into the farthest corner of the cave, away from the coming light of day, his body jerks, going still and silent.  Without comment, the searchers don the masks of guardians and take their posts near the entrance.  

                                              ***

_Black eyes glitter.  He has chosen a new soul, and he works to earn her respect and adoration.  Her dolls know it is futile, but they do not speak._

_She is dark, and more beautiful than the slick, hot rush of an enemy's essence on his tongue.  She has taught him to hunt, to revel in the pleasures of flesh long denied a son given to the Church.  She has taken him in blasphemy, crashing his world and rebuilding it with cold, still cells.  He buries the softness of love and the poetry in his heart beneath pale flint and gives himself completely to her service.  _

_His cackle accompanies her squeal of delight as he cracks his father's spine.  "Oh Father, are you not pleased?  Let me show you the man I have become..."_

_For decades they chase his purpose through fire and pain, for laughter.  He will be her knight. _

-- -- -- -- --

Carefully, Giles closes the leather-bound volume and lays it on the table, staring at the pale morning sunlight washing the age-worn cover.  From the kitchen, the kettle summons him.  Willow will wake soon, and he needs fortification to face yet another morning of icy silence.

Reaching the stove, he turns off the flame and carefully spoons tea into a pot before pouring in the not-quite boiling water.  Momentarily, he is living the life he's dreamed of: English scholar in a quiet coastal village, responsible to no one and for nothing.   Giles leans against the counter and removes his glasses, silently ticking off the seconds until the tea hits that moment of perfect readiness.   The motions of the ritual are soothing, and he is startled when he hears the slap of bare feet on the kitchen floor.  

Their eyes meet and bow, the beginnings of a dance they've perfected over the weeks she's spent here recuperating.  He knows the steps as if he were born to them.  _Slam, pour, clank, shove, sit.  Giles turns to pull the bread from the bin and start the toast, when her words bring him up short.  _

"I'm not hungry." The strain in her voice is more extreme this morning than after a lengthy training session.  The pull from across the world grows stronger every day, but it's not the residual power that is killing her.

"Ah, Willow...you shouldn't--"

She cuts him off.  "What?  Kill myself with guilt?  No need for that."  The weight of the world literally hangs in her voice.  "I heard the phone last night…Who was it?"

He hears her fear in the question, and answers the one unasked.  "You don't have to go back, yet."  The glasses find their way to his nose automatically, and he rests a weathered hand on her shoulder before re-assuming the mantle of authority.  

Briskly now, no-nonsense.  "But it's growing.  The longer you wait, the more you'll have to overcome."

She once lived for this, a position of supreme importance.  Utter control.  The fate of the world in her hands.  She loved the power, tossing control left and right, casually imposing her will on time and space and matter.  And now, when it will be essential that she act, she'd give everything she has to return to being the girl who wore fuzzy pink sweaters and loved Xander with all her unbroken heart. 

"It hurts, Giles.  And when I touch the power..." she fights the wave of self-pity that washes over her, and the shadow of a grin brings life to her face.  "I guess I know now why Spike wanted us to stake him freshman year. Only I don't have to wear bad Hawaiian shirts."

Giles watches, grateful for the shaky attempt at humor.  Progress.  It was a far cry from the bubbly babble he'd grown accustomed to hearing from her over the years.  She was a far cry... 

Off with the glasses again, so hard eyes can pin hers as he speaks.  The ease with which he pushes sympathy aside surprises him.

"And you've quite a mess to clear."  He suppresses the smile of satisfaction that rises when her head droops a fraction.  Each day, she shows more signs of being more in this world than out of it. 

"Have today for a holiday, Willow.  Ailsa has some new information on the prophecy for us to research.  I'm sure it won't require power. But time is running out, and you will not be derelict in your duty.  I'm told that the disturbances in California are becoming more frequent, and it's likely that within a matter of weeks your presence will be required."  

Giles moves back to the counter to pour his cup of tea.  Lifting the cup, he fixes Willow with a stern glare.  "You must be strong enough to seal the breach, or we'll all pay the price of your arrogance."

-- -- -- -- -- --

The two men squat at the mouth of the cave, watching the first yellow rays of the morning sun strike the swirling sands with their harsh light.  They close their eyes at the noise from the interior of the cave and twirl their wooden staves.  

                                                ***

_Together, they earn his damnation, but his destiny yet awaits._

_He had been sure that the swath of grand chaos they painted through the continents was the path of glory she'd seen for him in the moment before his making, but tea parties in Prague spell the beginning of the end to his time as dark knight to his princess.   _

_The leaves of her madness predict the destruction of her beloved monster. Burning baby fishes, with short skirts and shorter words, wait for him on the Hellmouth._

_He serves his lady until the end, but she sees his fate in the night skies.  She will be his soul no longer: he returns to the source, a moth drawn to a flame that will consume all that he is.   _

_He'll kill her, he'll save her -- he cannot exist without her.  Their lips meet; she is his soul.  He will be her white knight, offering all that he is, and all that he can be, to her.  She takes it from him, but it is not enough.  _

_The revulsion in her eyes sends him screaming from himself._

_                                                ***_

Spike jolts from his sleep, fully awake in this world.  He backs up against the wall and waits.   He knows he is not alone in this space.

TBC

I'm sorry this one took so long.  This chapter is probably the most complicated thing I've written, and I've been dealing with a flooded basement most of the week, as well.  I hope it won't be as long before I finish off the next installment, but patience please.  I always finish what I start.


	4. Chapter 3

Title:  To Carthage They Came (Chapter 3)

Author:  Chris

Rating:  PG-13

Disclaimer:  You're kidding, yes?  Not mine; don't sue. 

Summary:  Less with the mind-bendy, more with the storytelling. Some indeterminate but smallish amount of time has passed. Buffy's on another date, Spike gets some advice, Dawn mucks about where she shouldn't, and Willow and Giles have a visitor.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

John watches her from across the table, marveling at the fact that she is here with him.  She smiles, and the room lights up around her.  He doesn't know if it is the wine or the music that has relaxed her enough to let pleasure in, but he knows it is not he who brings her to happiness.  It is what he represents.  

Is he doing her any favors, letting her pretend at normal girl with him?  At this moment, she seems to be nothing more or less than an ordinary, if strikingly beautiful, woman.  But he knows better.  

He's seen a lot of hellholes in this world while with the Merchant Marines, and has somehow landed here in Sunnydale, a different kind of hellhole.  He has an unusual ability to recognize the truth around him, and he knows both what Buffy is and what she does.  He's seen it himself, responding to the call to pick up the two bank robbers and later, at the ruins of The Magic Box .   

As has become their habit, the conversation is light, touching on Dawn's escapades and favorite flavors of ice cream.  She skillfully avoids anything deeper, until he reaches out to grasp her hand.  "Look at me, Buffy.  You know we can't do this forever, don't you?"

"What?  Eat Alfredo?  Yeah, artery-hardening badness, but when you eat it off china plates, the calories don't count, right?"  She is flip, and he recognizes the maneuver.  She has heard the seriousness in his tone and wants to avoid it.  Avoidance is one of her many talents.  

He gives in, for the moment, and lets go of her hand smoothly as he picks up the half-full wineglass.  

He catches her eyes over the rim of the glass, since she won't let him keep her hand.  "So...you haven't said how the job is working out for you.  Still liking the work?"  It has to be an improvement over burger-flipping, but how is she dealing with the emotional issues of working for a women's shelter?

"You know you probably saved my life by sending me there, John."  Buffy returns his gaze, grateful.  "But...sometimes?  It's hard.  I look at the pain in their eyes, and I want to pound the men who hurt them.  It reminds me that I'm helpless to fight so many of the monsters in this world. I wish I could do more, that I could wipe those assholes off the face of the earth."  

John sees the anger in the set of her jaw, but does she see the whole picture?  He remembers his own anger every time he responds to a domestic call and is sent away with a wave of the hand in front of a tear-stained face.  'No, officer.  I don't want to file charges.'  'He loves me.'  ' I don't want him to go to jail.'  'He promises he won't do it again.'  'He just has a little trouble when he drinks.'  They let their blind love drag them into the pits of despair, over and over again.  

He knows she won't hear him, but he has to say it anyway.  

"You know Buffy, it takes two people to create an abusive relationship.  Those cretins who abuse their wives and children should burn in the hottest fires of hell, but the women who let them...they have their own problems."

Now she is truly furious.  "Are you trying to tell me that it's their fault they've been beaten?  Come on, John.  That's like saying a woman who ..." her eyes take on that sad cast, then flash bright rage.  He interrupts before she can finish the thought.  He knows she's been hurt.

Gently now.  "Buffy, you need to understand this, before you get too attached to these women.  Do you know how many of them will ultimately return to the men who hit them, because they love their abusers so much they've given up everything that they are?  I've seen it happen, over and over again.  They literally beg for it.  

"No, the women who escape are not to be pitied.  If you want to help, don't do it by protecting them.  Help them learn to stand on their own, to value who they are and their places in the world."

Before their discussion can escalate to  full-scale argument, his cell phone rings and his beeper goes off.  He doesn't want to leave it here: they've come so close to touching something real together.  But there's a problem at the station, and he has to go.

Kind brown eyes apologize as he rises from the table.  He leans in, steeling himself for the hesitation he knows will come when his lips reach for hers. 

"We're still on for the baseball game, right?"  At the last moment, he goes for what's easy and lands the kiss on her cheek.  

She sees the disappointment in his eyes, gives herself a little shake, and reaches up to kiss him briefly on the lips.  This is what normal relationships are like.  No burning fires, no grand passions.  Only comfort and caring. 

"Of course.  Wouldn't miss it for the world."  She pushes him away with a light touch.  "Now go, save the world."  She fights back tears as she watches him walk toward the door.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

"Well, then.  What're you after? Missin' the campfire entertainment?"  Spike stands to face the tall, thin man in the shadows at the mouth of the cave.  

The shaman moves closer and settles himself cross-legged on the ground.  "It is time for you to go."  His vaguely British accent is familiar, bringing an odd sense of comfort to the agitated vampire. 

"But we do not mean you to go in flames."

"I don't bloody see why not."  The anger is still there in his eyes, ever present, but it has diminished over the weeks they've been playing this game.  "Can't keep track of time, no idea what's going on when, keep getting bloody lost in the past.  What good 'm I to anyone like this?"  Spike slides to the ground, leaning against the wall of the cave for support. 

The shaman speaks gently, as if to a frightened child.  "Your fugues are only partly caused by the changes you've undergone.  We laid protective spells on you from the moment you emerged from the cave -- spells to keep you functional when you would otherwise have gone mad.  You have been so filled with anger that we feared you would destroy yourself and what chance the world has, at the same time. "

Spike throws back his head, laughing maniacally.  "Oh, that's rich.  The survival of the world, dependin' on me?  Tell me another one.  You sound like another git I know."  

Standing to tower over the shaman, he cocks his head and mocks the genteel accent.  "Has it occurred to you, that there may be a higher purpose?"  

On automatic pilot, he begins to pace the shadows. "He's a fool and so are you.  I'm no good.  Never have been, never will be.  Thought this soul would fix it, but the only difference it's made is that I know what I am.  She knew it.  Now I do, too."  He comes to a stop, hand in hair, the familiar gesture suddenly foreign as brown eyes watch knowingly.

The shaman shakes his head.  "You miss the point entirely.  The soul isn't meant to tell you who you are.  It is meant only to give you a choice, to remove a barrier to change.  Only you can decide what your choice will be, but one thing is certain:  the choice you make will ultimately decide the fate of the world."

Spike's laughter is a harsh bark.  "A choice, you say?  Fucking joke!  Live in pain, or die in peace.  Where's the higher purpose in that?"

"You must open your eyes to see.  The soul is not the only gift you've received.  Without you, the world will die.  It is your task to discover why that is so."  

The shaman withdraws a pack from the folds of his robe and hands it to Spike.  "There is blood enough to get you to civilization, and a list of contacts in most areas.  We've thrown a wide net, and most covens will assist you.  Use them to survive, or die."

The shaman rises to leave the cave.  "I can help you no more.  The long periods of lost time will dissipate, but the visions will continue to come.   You must learn from them."

The lightening in Spike's skull doubles him over with pain, and images begin to flash.  He is alone, again.

-- -- -- -- -- --

A magnetic force pulls her to this place for the third time in as many weekends, the seductive call of its power stronger than her dislike of the physical labor required.  Every day the whispering voice becomes clearer, and she cannot resist another attempt to uncover the treasure she knows lies buried.  

After verifying that she is alone at the site, Dawn moves quickly.  She has only an hour before the sun goes down, and she knows better than to stay here after dark.  

Digging down deep in a spot where smoke rises, she hears a child-like voice calling to her in its low-pitched murmurings.  "Come to me, pretty one.  We shall have such fun together, you and I.  The world will be our playground.  Shhhh.  We are alone tonight."  

The voice lulls her into accepting what she knows is wrong.  She should tell Buffy, or at least Anya, what she knows, but that would mean giving it up.  

Shuuuuck.  Thud.  

Shuuuuck.  Thud.  

Dawn lifts and lowers the shovel in cadence with the murmured encouragements, unaware of her surroundings.  Sooner than she'd expected, the shovel hits something solid, and she jumps back with a cry of surprise.  

Carefully, she lays the shovel aside and digs with her hands.  She touches the small black box and shudders.  This is what she's been seeking. 

"Yessssssssss." The sibilant whisper is clearer than ever before.  "Let them out, my sweet.  They can free me.  And they will obey your commands as if we are one.  My pretties want to play, and so do you."

Dawn licks her lips, running a finger along the edges of the lid.  There is no obvious way to open the box.  Her fingers trace the edges, bringing the surface of the box to a high gloss where the dust is cleared.  A hint of apprehension gathers in her stomach as she wipes the lid clean to reveal a small design etched in the center:  a pale green sphere with an intricate pattern worked in silver across its surface. 

Somewhere in her mind, a voice is shrieking at her to stop, to wait.  But she continues to move, tracing the design repeatedly, murmuring to herself.  A dusky green aura surrounds her body, glowing ever more brightly as seconds tick past.  She feels the power building with her motions and closes her eyes to focus.

Suddenly, the lid releases with a small pop, obscured  by her sharp intake of breath.  Dawn peeks inside apprehensively.  No fireworks, no whooshing wind, no sparklies flying.  Just a grey rock.  She sits back on her heels in disappointment, resting the box on her thighs to stare at its contents.  

Just a rock.  She picks it up, feeling its rough surface for a hint of the power she knows must be there. It is faint, but present.  Closing her eyes, she wraps the rock in her fist and concentrates.  

The voice comes, clearly this time.  A female voice.  "It is done.   My captains are free, and soon, so shall I be.  They will obey you, and only you."  

The rock slides into her pocket smoothly, filling her with a sense of contentment.  Dawn closes the lid on the box and shoves it under the pile of dirt she's raised.  Twilight is upon her, and there'll be no further searching tonight.  

Monday will be soon enough.  And Anya will be pleased with the box.  

A secret smile curves Dawn's lips as she gathers her shovel and returns home.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

_Dawn, the sister of his soul, dances in the air with darkness surrounding her.  She is not herself.  Thousands of glowing souls are her captives, twisting and crying in shame and anger.  Some of them glow darkly, oozing their sins in amorphous blobs of suffering.  Others are bright, clean.  And she twists them to her purpose, laughing at the pain she causes.  The delight in her blue eyes is not her own -- she is buried beneath a monster.  _

_The dark figures that marshal the souls are her champions, and they are free in the world.  He can feel their hunt beginning.  The pale white face hangs above them all.  Red hair and sad green eyes have been their first, and will be their last, victim._

Spike rises from his prone position on the dirt floor of the cave.  Higher purpose, bloody hell.  He knows now what he has to do, but hasn't a clue how to do it.  He withdraws the scroll the shaman gave him and searches for a name and a location.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

The sounds of the twilight turning to night surround Willow as she sits on the back steps of the cottage, concentrating.  The fierce wrinkle of concentration between her brows belies the serene feel of the air, and she gasps and falls forward with a whoosh of lost breath.  

Through gritted teeth, she groans, "I can't do it any more, Giles.  I can't."  

He moves forward from his position in the doorway and takes a seat on the steps near her.  Clearing his throat, he responds gently but firmly. 

"You can, Willow dear.  You must."  He puts one arm around her shoulders and helps her to her feet.  

"Let's go back inside.  We have to get that pit in Hungary closed off tonight, but perhaps a break won't hurt."  

Willow quietly follows his lead.  She's too exhausted to respond, and she doesn't understand why.  The pressure of the burdens in the village seems to have increased tenfold over the last hour.  Has something terrible happened?  She can't identify the source, but the pain and suffering is sharp and clear, invading every nerve ending in her body.  

Before she realizes it, she's holding a cup of tea and staring at a tall stack of thick books on the kitchen table.  Her voice is thin. "This is a break?"

Giles puts the kettle back on the stove and turns to regard his charge.  "We're running out of time, Willow.  We have to finish this soon; new fissures are erupting almost daily.  While you're resting, we can look for other references to 'the lost one' in the new books Ailsa brought."  He turns to face her with a frown, "Unless you're too weak?  I could..."

"No, I can manage it.  I don't know why it's so bad this afternoon.  Something terrible must have happened in the village -- I can feel the pain as if it were yours.  But I can't read it.  It's worse than when Peter drowned last month."  

With a heavy sigh, Willow puts down the cup and reaches for the first book in the pile as Giles joins her at the table.  Both are so absorbed in their reading that the knock at the door startles them.  Giles looks questioningly at Willow, and, receiving a shrug in response, heads for the front of the cottage to answer the door.

What he sees takes his breath away.  Spike, or a nearly exact replica, is standing on his doorstep looking for all the world as if he's been another round with Glory.  

Giles feels the hatred bubbling in his chest and grits out the words, "You. Are. Not. Welcome. Here."  Giles spins to slam the door, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Spike reach out a hand as if to stop the door from closing. 

"Help me...  Dawn and Will--" The words, spoken as if dragged from the mouth of Hell itself, penetrate Giles' consciousness only when the door is closed and he is halfway to the kitchen.

"Help him, indeed.  Why I..."  Muttering under his breath, Giles barrels onward, nearly knocking Willow into the door frame in his haste to reach the weapons.  She's clutching her stomach with one hand and holding a thin book in the other. 

The surprise in her eyes is nothing compared with the jolt of electricity that runs through him at her words.  "Have to help him, Giles.  He's the one.  Hurry, before he leaves." 

Giles stares at her in astonishment, frozen at the implications of her statement.  Only when she shoves him backward does he recover the ability to move.  Ignoring the questions flooding his thoughts, he rushes to the door, standing motionless once again when he sees no sign that Spike was ever present.

-TBC-


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Summary:  Okay, going so ridiculously AU with the Spike history here that I can only hope you'll tolerate my theory.  If you can figure out from what non-copyrighted source I stole about half of the lines of the prophecy, you'll have a HUGE plot clue :-)  For those of you who've written that it's confusing, my apologies.  I'm afraid the style I've chosen for this is inherently abstract, though I think all will become clear before the tale is finished.

-- -- -- -- -- --

The force of Spike's anger glides in angry slashes of black on pale blue, telling the Watcher off for what could be the last time.  

Taut lines of tension draw his shoulders square and furrow his brow.  He does not know how long he has.  Moments of freedom are brief, and he does not know if he will last long enough to reach the post.  In a minute that lasts an eternity, he folds the note to seal it, then hears the first whispers.  

Gleeful refrains pronounce an end to sanity for the thousandth time, and he releases the paper into the wind's keeping. 

-- -- -- -- -- --

_When in chaos Gaia's hold is loosed_

_Shall the beasts be freed,_

_By one seduced. _

_Dark bride hears the hymn of hell,   
O'er the lost one sounding--_

_Chant of frenzy, chant of ill,   
Sense and will confounding!   
Round the soul entwining   
Without lute or lyre-   
Soul in madness pining.  _

_Wasting as with fire!_

_Hell takes earth back, into the ground_

_No key to lock the cage 'til found_

_Salvation lies in souls, unbound._

Willow sinks to her knees, holding tightly to remnants of her self in the slowly fading hurricane of borrowed despair.  Words of prophecy dance in her head, partner to pain-washed stars of guilt. Giles is speaking, but she cannot hear.  Knowledge slams through her as the dots connect.  The one. He is the lost one.

The note Ailsa hid in the book trembles in Willow's outstretched hand.  It says only that the shamans have discovered that the vampire with a soul is the key to the prophecy.  Until she saw him standing in that doorway, she'd been sure it was Angel.  But she'd been wrong.

A soul.  Spike has a soul.  And he's under siege.

She leans back against the wall and looks into Giles' confused eyes.  "Not Angel, Giles.  It's him. I could see it--no, feel it--in him."

"Oh, dear God."  Giles joins Willow on the floor, the intensity of the moment lost to introspection.  Of all the things he's contemplated in their research on the prophecy, the one that hadn't entered into his mind was Spike.  

He pulls the glasses off his face and rubs his eyes. "We'll have to call Buffy."

Willow's eyes skim along the shadows of the floor as she murmurs, "Of course."  Really, she shouldn't be so relieved.  Of all the things she fears, and there are many more now than ever before, the thought of seeing Buffy again frightens her the most.

"What did he say?  We'll have to find him, you know."

"He didn't say...well, I didn't let him say much.  He asked for help."  Giles' fingers move from his forehead to his temple, soothing the throb that began the instant he'd opened the door.  "Do you suppose I should try to find him tonight?"

Willow closes her eyes, trying to assess Spike's proximity and the extent of his injuries by the intensity of the emotion that assails her senses in waves.  "He hasn't gone far.  And I don't know where he could go."  She bites her lip, thinking.  "It's not as if he can return to Sunnydale.  Not after what he did."  

She looks up to catch hazel eyes icing over with anger.  A thread of worry enters her voice; Spike seems farther away, and the pain worsens. "It's killing him, Giles.  He loved her.  We all knew it.  Don't you think...?"

The growl in his voice is low and menacing.  It comforts her.  Once, she'd have thought him a man possessed, but now she knows this side of him, all too well.  

"Bloody sick bastard ought to twist in guilt.  Ought to be staked out of hand."  Rising quickly to his feet, he stares hard at Willow.  "I presume he won't off himself tonight, if I leave it for tomorrow?"  

Willow watches as he paces the length of the room.  The gait is familiar, and as her thoughts drift back to the vampire who's thrown their carefully crafted research and planning into chaos, she realizes why.  A smile curves her mouth.  Now she knows the answer to his question.  

Persistence is another of their shared qualities.  

"I think he'll last the night."  But will he come back tomorrow?  Fifty-fifty odds, at best.  If he doesn't appear, she'll know where to look first. "You'll call Buffy?"

Giles stands at the breakfront, pouring liquor three fingers high into a glass.  It's not the cheap stuff, but he knocks back more than half in a gulp.  

"Waste of good Scotch."  His head droops, and a hand reaches back to rub his neck as he turns to walk toward the phone.  "At least I know she's not in bed asleep."

-- -- -- -- -- --

Spike hears his father's voice.  It rings in his ears, among the dark wings of his companions.  They have been with him since leaving the desert, but the harsh refrain is new.

_"You are not welcome here."_

_He turns into the storm and runs from blue eyes colder than the storm.  Almost twelve, nearly and never a man, he knows what he has to do to appease Father.  He must be clean.  The rain that seeps into his boots pours bitter, wet welcome down his face, rinsing away surface grime.  The filth in his mind, on his soul, is a stain he cannot escape.  The books that call to him, the poetry he longs for-- will never let him go.  He does what he knows he must._

_He goes to confession. _

_"Holy Father wash my sins away."  _

_Closing doors, crossing hands -- fearful weeping, gentle comfort.__  Driven, desperate scrubbing of hands and feet.  The touch of the clean, cold water is forgiveness, burning his mind and his heart with their gift of absolution. _

***

The priest hears the commotion and hurries, stopping abruptly as he enters from the sacristy.  The church doors stand open, and the sight he beholds is one he will remember always.  An emaciated demon kneels half-naked near the fount, scrubbing burn-blackened hands relentlessly in the pool of holy water.

The words of contrition are a twisted litany echoing through tears of rage, and the priest trembles at the prayers of a tortured soul.  His job is to comfort, but what comfort can there be for such a creature, born of man and eternally damned by too hasty a rebirth?

Clear blue eyes stare through him, begging for release the cleric cannot provide.  

He will not kill a souled being.  There is nothing for it but to go. The priest crosses himself and flips a switch as he takes his leave.  Strains of Gregorian chants fill the sanctuary, providing a soothing counterpoint to bleating, child-like promises.  

"I will be clean, Father.  You'll see."

-- -- -- -- -- --

"Ewwwww!  This stuff is worse than last night's demon goo." Buffy wipes at the oatmeal splattered across her face and shirt with a kitchen towel.  "I'll never get this mess off in time for work."

Kitchen collisions are the *worst* part of the morning, and now that school has started back, mornings are insanity.  Ah well... there are worse things in life than a little muck.  Oatmeal's good for the skin, right?

In spite of her irritation, Buffy grins and looks up, expecting to see Dawn shaking with mirth.  But there's no humor at all in her face.  Buffy reaches for her forehead, but the teenager pulls away before she makes contact. 

"Are you sick?"

"Of what, Buffy?  Being lied to?"  Dawn's eyes are cold and hard.  "When were you going to tell me about Giles' phone call?"

Buffy's face flushes with guilt.  She should know by now that there's no way to keep a secret from a 16-year old girl.  

"I just...."  As she turns toward the sink to rinse her hands, Buffy's irritation blooms.  "Well, you obviously already know what we talked about."  

Realizing she can gain the upper hand, she swings around, hands on hips, to face Dawn.  "And if you'd managed to wait until we sat down to attack me about it, I *would* have told you.  Now, you're almost late."

Dawn's forehead wrinkles with a frown as the self-righteous tone enters Buffy's voice.  She knows she's lost this little skirmish, but she won't lose the war.  Her hand slides into a pocket, feeling the smooth edges of her touchstone.  The wrinkles disappear, and her mouth turns up in a faint smile.  

"Yeah, like late to Holland's homeroom is a freakin' Greek tragedy."  Dawn leans on the counter and looks at Buffy from behind the curtain of her hair.  "Sorry I'm all hormonal today.  But I don't like hearing that _he might be coming back.  My stake is sharp, but is __yours?"_

Buffy's shoulders relax as she realizes why Dawn is so angry.  Their eyes meet as Buffy responds quietly.  "You know it is."  She sympathizes.  If the reasons for their antipathy are different, the result is the same.  Turncoat friend, runaway ex-lover -- what's the difference?  

"And if it comes to it, I'll do what I have to do."  Even if it kills her.

Giving herself a shake, Buffy hands Dawn her backpack.  "But Giles hardly mentioned Spike.  Only that he was in England, and to keep an eye out in case he comes back here.  Didn't you stick around long enough to hear what he said about the temple ruins?"  

At Dawn's reluctant nod, she continues.  "I don't want you going to the temple anymore, until we sort out what's going on.  I'll go by and see Anya tomorrow after work, and we can sort out another way for you to work off your debt."

The jutting lower lip might have been a clue that more discussion was called for, but Buffy has already turned to the stairs, intent on oatmeal removal. 

"Come straight home after school today, Dawn.  I'll be home by six."

She misses the sly tilt of Dawn's eyes entirely, and the door slams shut with no more force than usual.  

-- -- -- -- -- --

The veil between what is and what was lightens, and awareness wakes.   He flies to consciousness on the rhythm of musical voices, tonal weapons holding back the wings of ghosts enough to let Spike touch the edge of reality.  

Unrelieved hunger owns him; the pain from tortured hands is a pinprick against a backdrop of starvation.  Some godforsaken power has granted him release from its grip, and he must make his escape while he can.

He reaches the bowels of the ship as lingering wisps of music fade from memory.  Wild laughter springs from pale, cracked lips.  He'll share his berth with rats he cannot touch.  

Will they find him?  Let the hunt begin.

***

_In the deep mists of English __midnight__, William the Bloody becomes a hunter.  _

_Her sensitivity identifies the sweet, ripe smell of innocent flesh, and she teaches him to wait, to choose the moment and hold it, pouncing on the split second that will result in a chase.    Flight heightens fear, preparing his prey for the crystalline moment of clarity they will share as he sinks his teeth deep into flesh.  _

_Dominance lies secondary to gratification and thrill.  There is no sight so beautiful as crimson spurting from ripped arteries, no pleasure so sublime as gorging on the pulsing beat of life struggling against death.  _

_Teacher and taught, protector and protected--they play their games through Europe, so drowned in one another and the rising tide of humanity that they lose one of their own in Prague.  No thought given to mourning, they blaze a trail of wickedness to the Orient, full of death and chaos, and gorgeous, idle destruction.  _

_Years of blood and brilliance pull the knot closer and tighter, until he finds fate one radiant, orgasmic night in a temple. An exalted, wicked lust descends on fist and fang to unlock the rushing dominance of her sacred force.  He has taken his first steps with exultation, sealing his fate to one not born.  _

_Now, more than ever before, he is the hunted._

***

Snarling jet engines drown his whimpers, and the crate lands in the belly of a cargo plane bound for the states.

-- -- -- -- -- --

TBC


	6. Chapter 5

Title:  To Carthage They Came (Chapter 5)

Author:  Chris

Rating:  PG-13

Disclaimer:  You're kidding, yes?  Not mine; don't sue.

Summary:  We pick up slightly after where we left off in time. It's evening in Devon , late morning in California, the day following Giles' phone call to Buffy, in which he informed her of his discovery that some power was rising on the Hellmouth, and notified her of Spike's return.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Misty rain falls from flat, dark skies.  It's been the kind of cold, ugly day when she wants nothing more than to stay under the quilts.  But today, there has been no hiding in the bed, no hot soup and crackers at the kitchen table, in the company of her books and Giles.

Days of such ordinariness, however scarred by forays into earth healing, are now past, and she has been sent on a mission.  

Willow knows it's fruitless--the waves of anguish have quieted, and it's not because Spike sleeps.  Still, they walk the forested areas for hours, hoping that she's wrong.  Every cave and dark nook has been examined, with no result.  Heading west, she thinks she sees Giles near the tree line, where the forest leads into the village.  He leans against the tree as if he is holding it up, rather than the other way around.  

As she approaches, she sees concern written in the wrinkles of his forehead.  His sigh carries something like defeat through the trees to brush against her.  When she is close enough to touch, she reaches for his arm.  "Do you want to go on to the village now?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Willow."  He stands straighter and looks her in the eye, the grey mist sharpening the edges of his expression.  "This is all rather pointless.  It's obvious he's gone.  You're going to have to do this the hard way."

An ant crawling along the ground captures her attention when she looks down to avoid his stare.  "He was nearby until at least midnight last night--it kept me awake.  Maybe someone saw him.  Can't we just check at a few of the village shops?"  

Desperation threads her words as she watches the ant returns to its hill with another crumb for the structure.  In a low voice, she murmurs, "It was bad enough without deliberately touching..."

Silence hangs between them, but she hears his words as if he speaks:  the luxury of time has passed.  Something powerful enough to open tiny, black Hellmouths around the globe is rising, and somehow, Spike is needed to calm the coming storms.  

They will not succeed without him.  Shuffling her feet, she looks up to find Giles staring down at the ant, too.

"Come on, then.  A quick tour of the village, just to be sure."  He leaves the rest unspoken.  They will return to the cottage if they fail.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Dry winds moan across the ruins as a lone figure picks her way through the rubble.  The late morning sun is bright, flattening the earth-toned landscape, as Dawn comes to rest inside a cavern that has formed on the far side of the blasted temple.   

She licks dry lips and removes the stone from her pocket, beginning the rhythmic stroking she knows will summon the power and, when she is here, its voice.  Slowly, she closes her eyes and leans back into the dark, waiting for an answer.  It won't be long -- the summoning is easier with each attempt.  

Dawn's skin hums with power, calling the otherworldly shadows to the gathering.  Their mistress beckons, though no sound gives her away.  Today, they shall have her back.

The words are strong this time.  It is like a shout, billowing from the haze of smoke rising from crevices where no flames exist.  "I AM HERE."  

Dawn's eyes fly open, and her body jerks upright, a malicious grin covering her face.  Blue eyes glow with opal fire as she stretches out a hand to caress the shadows before her.

"She is too soft, my sweet ones.  This time, I shall stay."

-- -- -- -- -- --

_The edge of a dream circles the perimeter of knowledge.  Spike doesn't know where he's standing, or even if he's really there.  But he watches, helpless, as Dawn is drawn into great, black fists of angry water hammering the cliffs.  _

_The sound of her voice as she sinks beneath the water makes him believe it could be real.  _

_"Help me."_

_He dives headfirst off the cliff, closing his eyes and praying that he is not too late._

And wakes, alone and lucid, inside the cargo hold that is his carrier.  

If he had the energy, he would wail his frustration, wreak unholy destruction on the boxes and crates surrounding him, reminding him of his impotence.  The snaking whispers are drawing near again, and his growl chokes the shriek of pain as he reaches for the nearest small object and flings it across the hold.  

He needs more time to understand, and they will not give it.  Nor will he go without a fight.

-- -- -- -- -- --

The bang of the door behind them startles Willow out of her skin.   They haven't spoken since leaving the empty church.  It was her last, faint hope, but no one was there to answer her questions.

Sinking into the leather couch, Willow closes her eyes against the determined set of his mouth. She listens to the even fall of his footsteps moving through the cottage, as he gathers the necessary supplies.

The power that lives and breathes in her will make the chore of locating a soul in a non-living body possible.  Even dead flesh won't stand between her call and life's answer.  

The feel of the worn cotton quilt cloaking her shoulders is his signal.  It's time.

Darkness is complete around them, but for the flickering glow of the candles placed at precise angles on the table in front of the sofa.  Willow looks up to find Giles' even stare regarding her quietly as he holds out a crystal.  

She'd do, or say, almost anything to avoid this task. Instead, she shakes her head and waves him away, leaning forward over the shallow bowl of water to murmur quiet words of power.

Giles watches as she throws back her head, aiming an unblinking stare straight at him.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Talking to John has become so routine that Buffy's mind inevitably wanders while he speaks.  They're supposed to meet for lunch, but something's got him occupied at work.  As much as she wants it to be otherwise, she's not really disappointed.  His kind voice does not hold her attention, any more than the feel of his hands thrills her.  

Against the background hum of his chatter, she stares out the window, mesmerized by the patterns of smoke that rise from the ruins of the temple.  

It's been a calm week, maybe too calm.  Especially given what Giles said.  Something is different today, but she can't put her finger on what it is.  She'll check the site with her newfound lunchtime freedom.

Her finger traces a pattern on the glass, mimicking the swirling smoke, when something urgent in John's voice calls her attention back to the phone.  

"Wait!  Back that up about four sentences....  Did you say four suicides and twenty-five confessions *today*?  I can check the rosters here, but it sounds demon-y to me.  Why didn't you tell me this sooner, John?"  

Buffy's question carries across the quiet room at the shelter.  She knows the answer.  She's been here before.  He thinks she doesn't really care.  A frown plaits her forehead, and she stares intently through the window.  

"Alright, then."  Her voice concedes defeat to self-awareness.  "Good luck with it.  I'll call Anya -- need to talk to her about something else, anyway."  Her eyes drop to the worn desktop and her hand stills.  "Yes, me too.   Tonight, then."

With a sigh, she replaces the phone on the receiver, staring at it as if it were a snake. 

Buffy sinks back into the worn upholstery of the chair and strokes the armrest.  The friction of her hand on the cool, worn leather soothes her frayed senses as well as any meditation technique, and she closes her eyes and her mind, shutting out thought of why that might be.  

She's almost managed to forget who and where she is, when the sound of a male voice outside breaks the spell.  Wearily rising from her seat, Buffy takes her time walking to the door.  It's Bill -- Mary's husband.  He shows up regularly to bluster about tearing the house down to find his wife, empty threats coated in pure meanness.  The last thing she wants to do right now is deal with an idiot boyfriend.  

When she hears the anguish in his muffled words, though, her stomach clenches.  There's something different this time.  

Running now, she tears the door open to see him perched on the porch rail.  There is time enough to see the tears on his cheeks as he whispers, "Tell her I'm sorry.  I'm so very, very sorry."  

But lightening fast reflexes are not enough to overcome the hesitation born of her horror at the sight of the gun in his hand.

The blast that throws him from the porch echoes in her soul.  

-- -- -- -- -- -- 

Willow sights his still body amidst the wreckage and breathes sigh of relief.  Carefully, as if the boxes and bags might hurt her, she winds her way to where he lies, one arm outstretched and the other across his face, as if warding off some attacker.  

The disorganized chaos of the cargo and his position on the floor indicate that there must have been some fight.  Who, or what, has been here isn't visible, but Willow can feel its presence like a film of grease coating every molecule of air.  It's a stain she's felt far and wide, each time Giles has sent her out to heal the cracks in the earth's protections against the power it cages.

She'll have to wake him.  They need to talk.  

Squatting next to him, she reaches for the hand covering his face, and then flies back when her hand makes contact with his bare chest.  Black, sinewy figures emerge from the darkest corners, enflaming the shadows around her.

The pain of a thousand swords dances in her head, as the voices begin their gleeful taunting. 

"Oh, yessssssss.  You have found him, little witch.  Come. See what good care we take of your would-be hero.  You think you know guilt.  In a thousand years, you'll not do such damage as this one remembers in ten."

A wicked giggle pierces the air as darkness sucks her into a swirling vortex of images not her own.  "Ssssshhhhhhheee will be such fun.  Our Queen will be pleased."

-- -- -- -- -- --

Through the night and into the morning, Willow's body alternately stiffens and shakes uncontrollably. Giles sits, utterly motionless.  Watching.  The fear he feels is nothing compared to the helplessness.  The frail girl before him must undo the damage she has done to the earth, and he must do as he has always done and watch.  As with Buffy, he has done what he may to prepare her for her task, but ultimately she'll have only one companion, and it is not him. 

The morning sun creeps higher into the sky, drenching the silent room in light, when at last her eyes open.  She stares unseeing at him from across the couch, drawing her knees into her chest.  She rocks in time to some unseen count, until he can no longer stand it and slides across the couch to fold her into his arms.

With gentle strokes and quiet words, he wakes her from Spike's hell and into her own.

-- -- -- -- -- --

The knock at the door of the Magic Box startles Anya from her daily worship at the altar of accounting.  It's been months since anyone has disturbed her after closing time.  Perhaps it is those charming young females with their overpriced sweets.  Reaching into her pocket to withdraw some petty cash, she opens the door and stares, nonplussed, at the vampire leaning against the doorframe.

"Well.  You're certainly not a Girl Scout."  It's Spike.  And looking a little worse for the wear, in a somewhat sexy way.  "Are you selling something?" 

Cocking her head like a curious bird, she steps back to allow him entrance, and waits.  It's not like him to be this quiet; something is...off.  "Oh, you might as well come in.  It stinks out there." Waving him in, she moves to close the door, when he suddenly loses his footing and tumbles forward in a dead faint, knocking them both into a heap on the floor.

"You know, Spike, I don't think I want to have any more sex with you.  You used to smell so nice, and now you smell like..." Her jaw drops as she stares at the unconscious vampire draped across her body "...you have a soul."

-TBC-

Very soon, too.


End file.
